Silenced
by Foeseeker
Summary: To be a warrior. No living creature knows what these few words truly mean. But now the peaceful world of Redwall that has been maintained since Martin the Warrior could be overturned, and with it the meaning of a warrior . . . ON TEMPORARY HOLD
1. Prologue

_Silenced_

_Prologue_

Dark grey clouds streamed across the sky, blotting out all signs of the former icy blue reaches of space. Sleet and snow pelted the bare earth like tiny stones combined into one gigantic avalanche. The wind, sharp, keen, and cold as a knife, sliced through the trees in a frantic search for those creatures that had been unable to protect themselves sufficiently from the midwinter blizzard. Every living thing bent under the onslaught of the storm, so deadly in that icy beauty that only a winter storm possesses.

A tiny hut, standing between three huge pines, huddled against the ground as if to escape the cruel wind. It had not been built properly, and no repairs had been made in seasons to either its scraggly thatch roof or the frail wooden walls. The chimney that stood against the eastern wall was in no better condition. Several stones had gone missing, and the entire chimney was visibly ready to cave in. The door, the hut's only opening, was made of half-rotting planks and was hinged to the wall by thin strips of what appeared to be leather or hide of some kind. Behind this door, three creatures crouched in shivering fear as they waited for the storm to blow over.

A mouse in his early prime wrapped a blanket about the shoulders of his young wife, who was shaking with cold. He pressed close to her and whispered in her ear, "Don't ye fret, Melsa ye little candied chestnut. Th' storm'll soon blow over, an' we can get out o' this abandoned wreck. How's th' little 'un?"

He placed a light paw on the bundle that Melsa held close to her body. Pushing aside several layers of wraps and blankets, he glimpsed the tiny face of his newborn son. The infant wrinkled his nose at his father, squeaking as he tried to burrow away from the cold air.

The mouse chuckled. He replaced the blankets and glanced at his wife. The young mousewife, always frail, was now weakened by the recent arrival of her son. She crouched down into a ball in an attempt to preserve as much of her body heat as possible.

The male mouse frowned with worry. He slipped under the blanket with her, warming her with his own body as he continued to whisper comfortingly to her, "We'll get out o' this mess soon enough, Melsa. I'll se to it that we have a warm place to rest tomorrow night."

Melsa lifted her head for a moment, her slightly glazed blue eyes meeting his steady brown ones. Her brow was furrowed with anxiety as she questioned him. "Tolix, how do you know that this hut'll hold together that long? I can feel the boards shifting under my paws, and that thatch roof won't hold up much longer."

Tolix slipped his paw around her shoulders. "It'll hold, I promise. Now, ye get some sleep; ye need it."

As he watched his wife drift away into the realms of slumber, Tolix sighed. He hated lying to his wife, but he knew that she might panic if she knew that the hut stood very little chance against the unusually strong winter storm. Their only hope was to find some kind beast that would look after them until the worst of winter was over.

Tolix gazed moodily at a bit of snow that had sifted through the thatch. If only he knew where to take his wife and son, he would be content . . .

††

Tolix came awake with a jerk. It took him half a moment to realize that he had dozed off. He silently cursed himself. He had been on watch, guarding his little family! Who was he to lay down on the job?

A full moment passed before Tolix realized what had wakened him. A sharp, rusted swordblade was tickling his nose, hovering teasingly just above his face. Several vermin crowded about, shouting and laughing callously. The repeated mentioning of the word "slaves" filled the mouse with dread.

Tolix managed to turn his head slightly and glance at Melsa. The mousewife was huddled in a miserable ball, clutching her precious bundle to her. A muscular weasel stood over her, his spear resting easily at the base of her neck. She looked resigned, as if all hope had gone from her.

A ferret strode into the midst of the vermin. This new arrival was a young beast, barely old enough to go into battle. Nevertheless, it was clear that this was the leader of the vermin gang. His ragged grey tunic seemed scant covering for the fierce weather that raged beyond the frail walls of the hut, but this was made up for by a billowing brown cloak that covered the ferret from shoulders to footpaws. His fur was jet black and covered in large, mottled splotches of dark brown and dirty white. The black eyes glittered evilly out of the young, merry face, defying the look of innocence that still glowed in the creature. But the thing that Tolix's eyes riveted on was the deadly-looking mace and chain that hung from the ferret's belt. It was made completely of iron and was entirely free of rust or dirt.

The ferret gazed with undisguised contempt at the two mice lying huddled on the ground. He turned towards the weasel that was guarding Melsa, snapping irately, "Why'd ya git me out o' me tent ter see dese two bonebags? Dere useless as slaves!"

The weasel seemed to melt under his leader's icy glare. "I'm sorry, Zalosk, I only thought –"

Zalosk whirled on him, snarling, "Ya call me Chief, ya nettlebrain! I'm the leader 'round 'ere now!"

The weasel nodded frantically. "Ya, Za – Chief!" he shouted, as Zalosk's paw shot towards his mace and chain. "We only saw 'em from a distance earlier, an' we thought dat dey 'ad more meat on 'em den dis." He leaned down and pinched Melsa's arm to emphasize his remark. "We couldn't see 'em clearly 'cause o' dis crazy snow. I'm sorry, Chief, it was jus' a liddle mistake. 'Sides, now we can 'ave some fun."

Zalosk suddenly grinned. He slapped the weasel on the back, exclaiming, "Fer once yer usin' yer brain, Agra! C'mon, git dese sluggards up an' tie up those mice!"

As this, Tolix began struggling wildly to get away. His thrashing footpaw made contact with the leg of his guard, his claws scoring the rat's leg. The rat yowled and sliced wildly at Tolix with his rusty sword.

Tolix felt something strike his ankle, and a pain like he had never felt before lanced through him. Letting out a scream of agony, the mouse rolled about on the floor. His ankle had been laid open to the bone.

Zalosk burst out laughing, a cruel ring in his voice. "Hoho, dat 'un don't need ter be tied up. Oi, Yiski!" Here he addressed the rat that had wounded Tolix. "Give the same thing ter dat odder 'un. Save us some rope, hahahaha!"

††

Zalosk led his band back towards their snug little camp, his head held high in assertion of his rank. Glancing over his shoulder, he cast a final look of scorn over his shoulder at the two slain mice lying on the snow.

He frowned and turned back. Striding over to the fallen pair, he snapped angrily, "What'ya doin', Kurrb you ijit?! Ya're supposed ter be commin' back ter camp wi' th' rest o' us!"

Kurrb the rat was prying at the limp form of Melsa. "Dis 'un is 'oldin' somthin'. I thought dere might be somethin' worth takin'."

Zalosk leaned closer, peering over Kurrb's shoulder. There was some kind of bundle pressed close to the mousewife's chest. The patch-coated ferret could barely suppress a chuckle of delight as Kurrb pulled the bundle loose and unwrapped it hastily.

The little mousebabe squinted at the sudden light. The frigid winter air wrapped him in its numbing embrace, sending chills through his body. He had been silent during the entire length of his parents' slow murder, but now he held it in no longer. His little lungs voiced his grievances to the skies as he set up a thin, piercing wail.

Zalosk made a disgusted face. "Ergh, a babe! 'Oo wants a stupid woodlander brat dat's not even a season old?" The irate ferret whirled on his subordinate. "Kurrb, yew ijit! Why'd ya even think I wanted anythin' like dis? It can't even be trained as a slave; it's too young!"

Kurrb was not the brightest of beasts. He stood scratching his head for a moment, staring at the babe that dangled by its tunic from his paw. When Zalosk finished his wrathful tirade, the rat timidly piped up. "So now what d'I do wid it?"

Zalosk frowned for a moment; then his face creased in an evil smile. "'Tis a shame t' let a young 'un be seperated from its parents, isn't it, Kurrb?"

Kurrb had no idea what this was about, but he answered dutifully. "Aye, Chief, dat it is."

Zalosk began to chuckle. "Den let's send it to its parents. Slit its throat an' leave it 'ere. Dis cold an' its bleedin'll make short work o' it."

Kurrb looked puzzled for a moment. The dull-witted rat was still puzzled as he glanced questioningly at Zalsok. "Ya mean leave it 'ere ta die, Chief?"

Zalosk snorted with impatience. Without warning he snatched the babe from his subordinate, whipping the blade across the tiny mouse's throat. The little creature, who had been howling a moment before, suddenly fell silent as the blade punctured the skin on his throat.

Zalsok threw the mousebabe down on the snow, glowering at his subordinate. His voice was tight with anger as he hissed at Kurrb, "Yer . . . ijit! When I tell yer t' do somethin', yer do it! An' no questions asked! Now, git yer paws on the move ter camp afore I knock 'em off with me mace, see!"

The two vermin hastened off towards their camp, wrapped in their cloaks against the cold. Behind them two adult mice lay on the ground, their lives long ebbed away from their still bodies. A few paces from their prostrate forms lay a tiny infant, a steady flow of blood streaming from his throat as he silently writhed his life away in the desolate reaches of northern Mossflower.

_

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Well, here's my new story! I've been planning this story for over a month, and I was just DYING to write it. Besides, I need a break from _Foeseeker__. I've been working on that for so long that I need something else besides that to fill up my mind. ;-)_

_I can't promise you when the next chapter will come. Like I said, I do have another story to work on. But for those of you who haven't been reading my other story (__Foeseeker__), you could read that while I work on this! ;-)_

_I know that was a long prologue, but I really wanted to add in some of those details; they play an essential part in the story later._

_~Foeseeker~_


	2. The Rogue

_**Book One: Loose Threads**_

_1: The Rogue_

The sun was setting in the west, bathing the woodlands in its blazing light. The path that ran from north to south glowed like a hot coal, the dust that rose from it stained a vibrant pink. The wind held its breath over such startling beauty, the trees stood taller to be touched by the fiery fingers of the sun. Even the streams and brooks ceased their babbling in tribute to the glorious spectacle.

A lone otter sat by the path. The tunic that swathed his body had apparently once been blue, but now it was faded and patched to an almost unidentifiable shade of light grey. His patched, once-green cloak tumbled about his relaxed form, the fur of which was turning from a dark brown to a silver-grey. The otter's pelt was traced with scars, and two deep notches in one of his ears testified to his battle skills. To further confirm his proficiency in combat, a stout sword, two daggers, and a sling and stone pouch hung about him, the sword from its straps across his back and the remainder from his eelskin belt.

The otter tucked his water flask back into his belt pouch. Many seasons spent wandering had taught him to travel light and forage for his meals. The only things he carried with him were his weapons, his water flask, a few cooking utensils, his walking stick, and his cloak and tunic. These were the only things he owned in the world, and they had seen numerous seasons of good use.

Pulling himself to his feet, the otter tucked his belt pouch into its place as he glanced north up the path. He had been traveling this way for some days, and now his destination was only a short march away. Excitement ran through him. He had dreamed for seasons about this day. And it was finally upon him.

Picking up his walking stick, which had served him well through the seasons as a quarterstaff, the otter set off on the last leg of his journey. He reveled in the last rays of the sunlight as he strode easily on his way. The color . . . he had so many memories concerning it . . .

The warmth of the summer day was fading into the coolness of the night as the sun finally slipped into its bed. Crickets began to chirp, filling the night with sounds. Occasionally to the otter's well-trained ears came the faint, far off hoot of an owl. The world was at peace with its creatures.

The otter hastened his pace when he glimpsed the roof of a high tower over the treetops. Memories came flooding back to him as he remembered the many times he had seen that roof in his dibbunhood, when he had been so reckless and carefree. Dust spurted up behind him as he broke into a trot, overflowing with eagerness to be back home at last.

And then he was there. The main gates towered above him, framed by the sandstone bricks that were painted a dark wine-red in the twilight. Beyond the sandstone wall were the glimpses of rooftops, the tiles fashioned from beautifully cut slate. At the peak of this reared the tower, its massive height silhouetted against the velvet sky. The entire vision seemed to radiate peace and serenity, and the otter felt a lump rise in his throat as he gazed at his old home.

Redwall Abbey.

He slowly set one paw forward, and then another. Gaining his courage, he walked steadily forwards. Coming to a halt by the heavy oaken gates, he raised his paw to the gate. It felt sturdy and strong under his touch as he struck its massive timbers. Once! Twice! Thrice!

_Thud! Thud! Thud!_

A head popped over the ramparts. The creature's eyes glinted in the dim twilight as it shouted a challenge. "Who goes there?"

The otter's face broke into a rugged smile. Cupping his paws around his mouth, he roared back. "Open the gates, ye ol' curmudgeon! 'Tis me, Ruggar, ye're brother!"

The figure on the walltop gasped. "I'm commin', ye ol' panwolloper!"

There was a sound of pounding footpaws beyond the ramparts. Next moment came the solid thud of the bar across the gate coming down. One side of the gate opened, and another otter leaped out and hurled himself on Ruggar. The pair rolled about in the dust of the path, pounding each other on the back.

"Hohoho, Ruggar me ol' matey! 'Tis good t' se ye again!"

"Drung, ye lazy shrimpscoffer, I've missed ye!"

When they finally calmed down enough to stand up, Ruggar looked the other otter up and down. He was not a young beast, but still in the height of his prime and somewhat taller then Ruggar. The fur that covered him from ears to rudder was the color of a walnut shell; dark brown that matched that of damp forest loam. The otter's black eyes twinkled out of a tracery of facial scars, all long since healed. The black tunic that covered him from shoulders to waist was belted with a thin white cord.

Ruggar hugged the other otter. "I missed ye, little brother."

Drung hugged him back. "So did I. In fact, th' whole holt missed ye when ye ran off like that. Why'd ye do it, matey?"

Ruggar released his brother. "I'll explain later, mate. Ye can tell me th' news as we head inside. I've missed Redwall too, ye know."

The pair closed the gate, barring it with a heavy metal pole that fitted neatly into the brackets carved for it. They then turned towards the main abbey building, chatting animatedly.

Ruggar gazed about himself, memories flooding in thick and fast as he talked with his brother. "How's ol' Abbess Kalinette, Drung?"

Drung's face drooped slightly. "She passed away sis seasons back. Bernal's abbot now."

Ruggar's face expressed his surprise as he exclaimed, "Bernal? Abbot? He was th' worst dibbun in th' abbey when we were young 'uns!"

Drung's expression lit up again. "Oh, well, he's become th' classic reformin' dibbun, matey. I 'aven't seen 'im steal a scone for, lemme see, goin' on ten seasons now!"

The two otters dissolved into laughter. Ruggar slapped his brother's back, chortling. "Hohohohoho, I wouldn't 'ave expected that in tenscore o' seasons. Ha, that's as unlikely as ye becoming Skipper!"

Drung stopped in his tracks, grinning broadly. "Well, ye can swaller those words right now, matey. I was made Skipper three seasons back!"

Ruggar stared disbelievingly at his brother. "Ye can't be serious!"

Drung nodded, his black eyes twinkling. "Aye, jus' ask me son; he'll tell ye."

Ruggar's jaw dropped. "Ye've got a _son_?!"

Drung started pulling his older brother towards the main doors. "Aye, he's eight seasons old an' looks jus' like 'is mammy. Poor creature, she passed on two seasons ago in an outbreak o' frostfever."

Ruggar gave his brother a comforting pat. "Don't ye fret, matey, she's 'appy where she is now, an' I bet she's proud o' ye both. Now, will ye take me t' meet yore son? I 'ad no idea I was an uncle!"

Drung perked up a bit. "Well, ye'd better brace yerself, mate. We're jus' finishing up our midsummer feast!"

Ruggar's face lit up at the mention of a feast, but before he could say any more Drung opened the door and marched strait into the midst of the Redwallers gathered in Redwall's Great Hall.

A number of creatures looked up from their feasting, talking, and all-around merrymaking as the doors opened. When they saw Skipper Drung leading in a strange otter carrying a multitude of weapons, pandemonium ensued. Some Redwallers tried to get as far away from the stranger as they could. Some stayed where they were, staring. And a group of beasts, mostly young creatures with a small number of older Redwallers in the bunch, came forward to greet the newcomer.

However, they all took a few paces back as a grey squirrel wearing a red tunic came bounding forwards. He was of average height, but muscles flowed powerfully under his thick fur. In his paws was a flashing sword of fabulous craftsmanship.

Ruggar's first instinct was to reach for his own sword, but Drung calmly stepped between the two. "Nocan, relax. This is me brother, Ruggar. Sorry I didn't tell 'im t' take off his weapons before I brought him in 'ere, but he's perfectly harmless." The Skipper turned to his brother. "Ruggar, this is Nocan, our abbey Warrior. He's a bit quick with 'is assumptions, but ye can understand 'is reaction when ye come in 'ere with enough weapons fer a small regiment!"

Nocan kept his grip on the sword. His dark grey eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked Ruggar up and down. He kept up his defensive stance as he began to question the otter. "Why do you carry so many weapons? Who are you, a professional assassin?"

Ruggar grinned. He pulled out one of his daggers and twirled it neatly in the air. "I'm just a lone rogue, matey. If'n ye traveled the world without so much as a companion t' watch yer back, I'm sure ye'd collect as many weapons as I 'ave. 'Ere, see, this dagger is perfectly harmless." Without warning Ruggar leaped forward and plunged the dagger into Nocan's chest.

The grey squirrel gave a yell of surprise and alarm as the sword in his paw clattered to the floor. Leaping backward, he gripped the dagger's hilt and pulled it out.

Ruggar, Drung, and a number of others fell about laughing as Nocan stared at the collapsible dagger in his paw. The squirrel looked bemused for several moments, his face the picture of bewildered puzzlement. Then it dawned on him, and a broad smile began to play about his face. Chasing after Ruggar, who was rolling about on the floor with merriment, the Warrior of Redwall began berating the otter. "You old rascal! How many creatures have fallen for that one, eh? Here, Tragger, help me hold down that scamp whiled I give him the scolding of his life!"

A young otter of about eight seasons staggered upright, his little face still creased with laughter. However, before either otter or squirrel could approach him, Ruggar leaped nimbly up and swept the little otter up onto his shoulders. He began tickling the young one's footpaws, chuckling as he called over to Drung, "Lend a paw 'ere! I need t' teach this young rapscallion a lesson!"

Still chortling, Drung hauled himself to his footpaws. He shook his head at Ruggar. "Leave off 'im, mate, he's learned 'is lesson." The otter Skipper put on a stern face, shaking a paw at the youngster. "Tragger, I'd better not catch ye doin' anythin' like that again, dye 'ear?"

Tragger ducked his head, murmuring softly, "Aye, Pa, I won't do it again."

Ruggar eyed the young otter with surprise as he dashed off into the crowd of Redwallers. "That's an unusual color fore an otter, isn't it?"

Drung nodded in agreement. Little Tragger's fur was a dusty grey-brown, with the tips of the individual hairs being colored with a mix of black, white, tan, and dark brown. The result was a pelt that would blend in to almost anything.

The otter Skipper watched his son go with a stern eye. "'Is mammy 'ad similar colorin', 'cept 'er's was lighter. Now come, ye can borrow one o' me tunics t' wear t'night."

††

It was late. Only a few hardy creatures were still sitting in Great Hall, as the remainder had gone to their beds. Ruggar lounged against the table, watching with amusement as his brother's head nodded towards his latest bowl of shrimp n' hotroot soup.

The aging traveler allowed his gaze to wander over the familiar room. There was that old lamp holder, still standing in its corner. The bronze shield that had been placed seasons ago in a little niche in the wall still hung from its bracket. That chip out of the column over there was still not patched up. Ruggar remembered when he had accidentally made that chip, in a mishap with a hammer.

Ruggar's eyes were suddenly attracted to a little commotion in the corner, near the doorway to the kitchen. A grey-spiked hedgehog wearing a long white apron was apparently giving a tongue lashing to a young mouse carrying a large tray of dishes from the Hall to the kitchens. The mouse's fur was an odd grey-brown color, with his right forepaw, both his footpaws, and his left ear all a uniform chocolate brown. His dark brown eyes were downcast, and he made not a sound in protest to the scolding he was receiving.

Ruggar nudged his brother awake; just in time too, for Drung's nose was barely a whisker's width away from the soup. The Skipper jerked awake, shaking his head to clear it of sleep. "Huh, wha . . . oh, Ruggar! Sorry, I'm feeling a mite drowsy at th' moment. Think I'll go an' get a bit o' shuteye."

Ruggar placed his strong paw on his brother's shoulder. "Drop yore anchors fer a moment, matey." He pointed towards the young mouse in the corner. "Who's that beastie? Aye, that 'un with th' tray, over by th' drinks."

Drung frowned. "Oh, 'im. That's Vian, th' abbey troublemaker. He was brought in by Streampaw an 'er crew only a few days after Abbess Kalinette died. They 'ad found 'im 'alf dead in th' snow, both 'is parents slain an' his throat gashed deeply. Brought 'im 'ere t' Redwall fore healin'. Sister Firona did 'er best, but . . . well, ye can ask 'im yerself."

Ruggar gazed thoughtfully at the young mouse as he turned his brother's information over in his mind. "He doesn't look much like a troublemaker. What's he done that's so bad?"

Drung's lip curled ever so slightly as he replied. "Fore starters, he sprinkled Sister Firona's herbs with hotroot pepper, an' poor ol' Girrin th' bellringer got a full dose o' it when the Sister give 'im ground marigold seeds fore 'is cough. Poor beast was washin' 'is mouth out fore two days afterwards."

Ruggar chuckled lightly. "Wouldn't 'ave minded that happenin' t' me, mate, but Girrin always did 'ave a delicate stomach." He hauled himself upright. "I'm goin' t' go introduce meself t' th' young 'un."

Drung smirked. "If'n he'll talk t' ye!"

Ruggar eyed him. "An' what exactly d' ye mean by that?"

Drung leaned back against the table. "Ye'll see soon enough. It's just that young Vian has this . . . problem when he's talkin' with others."

Ruggar shrugged off his brother's odd remark and strode across the Hall towards the young mouse. By now, the creature had passed the tray on to the old hedgehog and had sat down for a brief rest on a bench that sat against the wall.

As Ruggar approached, he realized that this young creature was barely more then seven seasons old. The mouse was slightly smaller then the average, but he bore himself with a kind of saddened dignity. A thin silver scar ran lengthwise across his throat midway between chin and shoulders.

The aging otter settled himself next to the mouse, sighing with contentment as he leaned against the wall. He turned towards his bench companion, asking in a friendly voice, "Did ye enjoy th' feast this evenin'?"

The mouse gave him a wary sideways glance, his dark brown eyes weighing up the otter in a quick, calculating look. Then he gave one brief nod.

Ruggar smiled. "So did I. In fact, I've been to many such feasts in me youth. Oh, beg pardon, me name's Ruggar. Ye're called Vian?"

Vian nodded again, his eyes still filled with mistrust. Ruggar could tell that this was a creature who kept to himself. Nevertheless, the otter still made another attempt at conversation. "Me brother Skipper Drung told me about ye. Are ye really a troublemaker, like some think?"

Vian's face filled with indignation. He shook his head vehemently.

Ruggar could tell by the look in the mouse's eyes that he was telling the truth. In as soft a voice as he could manage, the otter murmured, "Why d' they think ye are, then? What happened?"

Vian's paw clenched. Narrowing his eyes to thin slits, he gnashed his teeth in anger. Ruggar was taken aback. This youngster had the spirit of a beast three times his age.

The otter placed his rough, scarred paw over Vian's small, delicate one. Looking deep into the mouse's eyes, Ruggar murmured, "Why do they suspect ye, then? Did ye do somethin'?"

Vian's eyes flashed, but before he could even open his mouth, the old hedgehog that Ruggar had seen earlier came bustling up. His loud, haughty voice made Ruggar's muscles tense. "What are yew doing here, Vian yew hooligan?! Get back down to the kitchens this instant! Move y'self!"

Ruggar stepped in front of the mouse. The otter's glower was enough to shatter glass as he stared piercingly at the hedgehog. "An' who are ye t' be pushin' 'im around, eh?"

The hedgehog missed the ferocity of the stare completely. He snapped irritably at Ruggar, "And who are _yew_ to be pushing _me_ around, waterdog?"

Ruggar's face began to twist with anger as he replied heatedly, "Watch yer tongue, hedgepig! Ye're talkin' t' Ruggar, brother o' Skipper Drung! Now answer me question – _now_!"

The hedgehog finally seemed to catch the otter's furious tone. He withered slightly under the enraged gaze, but tried to keep face by blustering. "Er – er, I'm Pirkle, the assistant cook. I was put in charge of that . . . that _hooligan_ yesterday. He has six days of kitchen duties fer putting sleeping tonic in Friar Burr's bowl of soup, an' he's been slacking all day. Now, if'n yew just step aside . . ."

Pirkle tried to step forwards, but again Ruggar blocked his path. The otter's voice was as cold as winter ice as he growled, "I'm talkin' with the young 'un at th' moment, an' if'n ye don't mind, we're goin' to go have a nice chat in th' orchard. Now git yerself back down t' those kitchens afore I start ye on yore way with a nice shove!"

Finally getting the idea, Pirkle started hastily for the kitchens. However, the brash hedgehog couldn't resist a parting remark over his shoulder. "If'n yew can get a single syllable out of that beast . . . hah! That'll be the day!"

Ruggar scowled. "An' what d'ye exactly mean by that?"

Pirkle scoffed. "Yew haven't figured it out already?! The infernal beast is mute!"

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I hope you get the idea for the title from these two chapters. And can you guess who the main character is?

_Vian is pronounced vee-aa-n._

_Frostfever is my Redwall term for the flu. In this story it took place in winter, and it seems to be the most common in winter to us. (I hope I'm clear here.)_

_I know not many characters were introduced in this chapter, but I want to bring them in gradually, as they all have to have some big-time writing about each of them. (That's one of my writing weaknesses; I have to give every possible detail on a new character.)_

_It will be some time before the next chapter is added because I'm off to work on my next __Foeseeker__ chapter._

_Please read and review! :-)_

_~Foeseeker~_


	3. Redwall's Misfortune

_2: Redwall's Misfortune_

_Slice. Chop. Slice. Chop. Slice. Chop. Slice. Chop._

Vian hacked away at a turnip, slicing it into tiny pieces for tonight's stew. He wistfully thought of the midsummer feast, now gone by two days. "_If only he hadn't put that tonic in Friar Burr's soup!_" the young mouse thought with a touch of anger. "_He's the reason I get punished so much! He frames me for the things he does!_"

But he couldn't tell them. He couldn't remember a time when he could have told the elders about the things that the bully did to him. The mute youngster struggled to hold his own with the world. Ever since infancy he had seen those things in the world that other young ones were sheltered from. Anger. Loathing. Scorn. Arrogance. Disgust.

Many creatures, upon hearing that Vian was mute, drew away as if he had not washed in a long time. Others would interact with him, but they were callus, awkward, and embarrassed when they did so. Some showed outright disgust and loathing, acting as if he wasn't even there. It was not hard to do, for the young mouse couldn't utter a word to show his presence.

Vian slashed at the turnip, letting out some of his pent-up rage and frustration. The young mouse had a fiery temper which often showed itself in his actions. Since he couldn't express himself in words, he would usually lash out at something or somebeast to vent his feelings. Because of this problem concerning his anger, he had earned himself a bad reputation among Redwallers as quick-tempered, unthinking, and rough. As such, Vian was often shouldered aside, left out of Redwall's inner social circle. It hurt him deeply, giving him an emotional scar that would not be erased easily, if ever.

Vian looked wearily up as a snappish, impatient voice rasped at him. "Vian, yew impudent scoundrel, git yer lazy paws over 'ere!"

Pirkle, the rude hedgehog who had been put in charge of Vian's duties, stood paws akimbo next to a tray of freshly baked scones. The irate hedgehog had a mixed look of anger and satisfaction on his face as he snarled at Vian, "I said, git yerself over 'ere! Now!"

A few kitchen helpers looked up from their work shaking their heads, exchanging a few titters as Vian slowly paced across the kitchen. The young mouse had not made himself popular with the cooks; he was somewhat clumsy, often breaking dishes and spilling food. He also seemed to have a tendency to be careless. Only the day before he had left a large slice of cheese intended for a batch of flans near the fire, melting it. During the feast he had forgotten to scrub the bottom edges of a deep caldron after it had been used for hotroot soup, thus ruining a potful of carrot and leek stew. And he was notorious for leaving scones in the ovens too long.

Vian trundled up to Pirkle and stood with his head down, staring defiantly at his footpaws. He hated how everybeast blamed him for everything that went wrong. That – that _sneak_ framed him, in the name of seasons! Why was he blamed when he couldn't even write down to explain what happened?

The young mouse had never had the patience to sit down and learn how to write; at least, he had never learned well enough to use it as an everyday method of communication. His habit of rushing his words left large smears of ink on the page, not to mention the fact that he pressed too hard, often breaking the quill pen or tearing the parchment. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't _fair_. Even Brother Birchton, the abbeyschool teacher, who usually had apparently unlimited patience with young beasts, often lost his temper with Vian's seemingly thoughtless mistakes.

Vian stood still as Pirkle launched into his tirade. In fact, the small grey-brown mouse seemed, to the onlooker, to have his thoughts anywhere but focusing on the grouchy hedgehog's words. However, Vian was painfully drinking every word.

"Yew lazy, good-for-nothing, thoughtless excuse for a brat! Look what yew did t' these scones!" Pirkle shoved one of the scones in question into Vian's face as he continued. "Yew've kneaded onion into 'em! That's what! Yew ruined Abbot Bernal's special afternoon scones! Why can't yew wash yer paws afore yew do that, eh? Extra dishwashing fer yew tonight!" Pirkle curled his lip as he stared at the unmoving youngser before him. With a growl, he snapped at Vian, "So, whadya have t' say fer yerself, eh?"

A few chuckles broke from the ranks of the kitchen staff. Beneath his fur Vian's cheeks flushed red. At the same time a tear of frustration and anger rolled down his face. "_Why are you picking on me when I didn't do it?!_" he screamed at Pirkle. "_You know just as well as everybeast else that I can't answer you! Why? WHY?!_"

But his protests went unheard by the other Redwallers. Vian felt the anger and sadness of the situation clawing at his heart; why _did_ they pick on him, when he was as hopelessly silent as a stone in midwinter? It confused him. Redwallers were known for their compassion and kindness to the weak and helpless. But Vian was as helpless as a blade of grass, and many abbeydwellers, picked on him constantly. Usually unintentionally, but they still did.

Especially one.

Vian glanced up slightly, shifting his gaze from his footpaws to a mouse that stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning casually against the doorpost. Vian felt himself grow hot as he saw the insolent, casually sneering face of the bully. Layvi was a favorite among the Abbeydwellers. He was strong, friendly to _most_ Redwallers, and was always brimming over with energy. His fur was a light tan that was almost golden, and his sparkling blue eyes shone out of his smiling face. He was unusually tall for nine seasons, and his quick mind and wit made him popular with all ages. His perfectly white paws, the envy of everybeast, were never still. Layvi was a creative genius, always fiddling with this or that and was a great help to the cellerkeeper, recorder, infirmary keeper, carpenters, smiths, and many others. His only flaw was his somewhat aggressive nature, which made him a little intimidating to some beasts younger than him.

Despite Layvi's friendly front to most creatures, Vian bore the brunt of Layvi's hostility towards beasts smaller and younger then himself. The mute youngster, unable to communicate with others and already under the suspicious eye of many, was a perfect target for the bully. Layvi was an expert at getting Vian into trouble, performing the crime with such dexterity and skill that it was seldom noticed. And now, with that gleam in his eye that Vian had seen so many times before, and that faint smile that allowed his teeth to show in a frightening way, Layvi told Vian in plainer language than if he had spoken that he was the one who had put the onions in the scones and he was greatly enjoying Vian's humiliation at this moment.

It took all of Vian's self-control not to spring across the kitchen and claw the insolence off his tormentor's face. He shook with anger, narrowed his eyes, and then forced himself to stand still. His ears had heard, through the red haze that engulfed him in his rage, Pirkle's rough snarl as the hedgehog continued his tirade.

"Yew stop starin' around an' listen ter me! If'n I catch you doin' anythin' like this again, I'll take a strap ter yew! D'yew 'ear? Maybe a good beatin' might open up that dull brain of yours, if you have one!"

This comment made Vian's head reel, and he shook his head in stunned horror. This was not what Redwall believed in. This was no better than a slaver beating a helpless captive. Fear, anger, and shock mixed together in a bemusing muddle as the young mouse listened with interpretation to the rest of Pirkle's rant.

"Are yew ever goin' to own up ter this or not? If'n yew do, ye'll get off with extra dish duty. If'n not . . ." He trailed off into a threateningly ominous silence. There was no need to continue the threat. Vian had gotten the message.

The young mouse stared in horror at Pirkle's glaring face. If he told a lie and did own up to the crime, he would have a relatively light punishment. But if he told the truth and didn't own up, he would get Abbot's report or worse. He shivered as Pirkle's earlier threat of a beating surfaced. Would the hedgehog really do that to him? Vian fully believed it as he held his tormentor's gaze. But Vian knew that he would never forgive himself if he told a lie. The cost would never outweigh the wrong of the thing. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head, denying his part in the crime.

Pirkle virtually exploded. He seized Vian by the ear and dragged him towards the door, growling, "That's it! I'll make hash out o' yew, yew little liar! Git those paws movin,' or I'll give yew a taste o' more than the lash!" He gave a vicious jerk to Vian's ear as the young mouse stumbled, cunningly tripped by Layvi, who was still leaning against the doorway.

As the spiteful hedgehog dragged him off, Vian caught a glimpse of Layvi's still smiling face. The grin there sent chills down Vian's spine as the sound of Friar Burr ordering the cooks back to work echoed down the hall, resounding through the young mouse's head like the toll of doom.

††

Vian huddled despairingly under his bed in the dormitory, whimpering mutely as his tunic rubbed across the thin welts that scored his back. Pirkle had beaten him with a vengeance, and had kept up the vicious punishment until Sister Tayla, the gentle gardener, had entered the woodshed and ordered him to stop. Pirkle had done so sullenly, but Vian still hadn't gotten away without a sharp kick to the tail. It hurt the young mouse to know that the Sister hadn't stopped the beating because of true affection; she merely hated seeing a beast in pain. "_Oh, if only she knew how much pain she gives me!_" Vian thought bitterly. "_She'd be sorry then!_"

The weave of his tunic caught on one of the weals, and Vian arched his back with pain. he could feel the hot stickiness of blood in a few places, but at the moment he was too wounded at heart to care. The brutality of his fellow Redwallers was like a knife through his ribs, slicing at his heart and scarring him mentally. He realized with a mixture of anger, bitterness, and alarm that he was fearful at the presence of other beasts.

With a frown Vian remembered Ruggar, Skipper Drung's brother. The otter had been the first beast in a long time to seem truly friendly with the mouse. Vian had wanted to interact with him more, but his kitchen duties restrained him from doing so. Moreover, Ruggar had been asked to assist with the warrior training of a half score or so of young Redwallers, to have an apt sucessor when Nocan, the present abbey champion, resigned. Vian recalled the bitterness he had felt when he hadn't been chosen for the training. But, of course, he was looked upon by the Redwallers as a kinless waif who had happened by their home and was most fortunate to have been allowed inside.

"_Ooh, the vermin! If only they knew that I am a creature like themselves, who can think and feel and do! If I could only TALK!_" In his frustration, Vian clawed at his throat. He had had this thought many times before, for his lack of speech was what really kept him apart from other creatures. But he knew that he was hopelessly crippled in that respect. No amount of healing and care would ever fix the wound that had silenced him forever. It was maddening to know that, because of something that nobeast had any control over, he was an outcast.

The click of the latch caused the young mouse to tense, ignoring the stinging pain in his back. He peeked tentatively around the bed post, hoping that it wasn't that Abbot's pet. "_Well, Layvi has a right to that position. He's Abbot Bernal's grandnephew after all,_" his silent voice growled bitterly.

A brown footpaw, the fur heavily streaked with gray, stepped around the doorframe. A moment later Ruggar entered, glancing this way and that as he called softly, "Vian? Vian, matey, I know ye're in 'ere. Come on out, I won't bite ye."

Glad to realize that he wasn't in for another scolding, Vian clambered out from under the bed. Ruggar scooped him up as if he were a tiny babe and set him on the bed, settling down next to the young mouse. Vian felt oddly at ease with his new friend sitting beside him. He glanced at Ruggar's weather-beaten face, searching it for any signs of mood.

The otter gazed, motionless, at the floorboards a few paces away. Then he slowly turned so that he was facing the silent young mouse. "Vian, matey, I heard what 'appened in th' kitchen from Burrvol. Tell me, did that hedgehog harm ye much?"

Vian snorted indignantly. For a moment forgetting himself, he leaped to his paws and tore off his tunic. Then he spun so that the light from the open window fell across his back.

Ruggar gasped. "In the name of seasons, that's worse than I've seen many a grown beast receive!" The otter's voice was laced with anger as he spoke. Vian sensed that his new friend was struggling to keep himself from really letting it loose, but in a moment the otter had calmed down and was moving towards a small jar on a shelf near the door that held a small amount of emergency ointment for young dibbuns' "wounds." In another moment he was back, removing the top of the jar and smearing a goodly amount on his paw.

Ruggar ran his now ointment-besmeared paw lightly across Vian's back, lightly pressing on the tender flesh and evenly coating the wounds with the thick, sweet-smelling ointment. Vian flinched slightly as the otter's searching touch found one or two of the tenderest spots, but he forced himself to ignore the pain and focused instead on the dagger in Ruggar's belt. What was it like, he wondered, to wield such a thing? Without quite thinking about what he was doing, Vian's paw began to creep towards the dagger's hilt.

Ruggar noticed the movement. Glancing at Vian's face and following the young mouse's gaze, the otter guessed what his young friend was up to. With a swift movement he drew the dagger and passed it to Vian, saying quietly, "'Ere, try it. 'Tis an old 'un that I picked up in me travels."

Vian hesitantly took the small blade, balancing it lightly in his paw. He ran a claw down the lethal blade, his eyes reflecting its gleaming brilliance. Slowly, he turned it around, examining it from all angles. It was a simple thing, the blade being about three times the length of Ruggar's paw. The hilt was of the same piece of metal as the blade, the grip wrapped in simple linen and set with a single piece of obsidian. Although it was small, Vian found it fascinating. "_I'm holding a tool of destruction in my paw right now. It feels so – natural! Like it belongs there._"

Ruggar noticed the look on his young friend's face and smiled. Shifting his position so that he was sitting right next to Vian, the otter wrapped his paw gently over the mouse's tiny one. He guided Vian's paw to the correct position over the hilt, moving the youngster's claws to lock over the tightly fastened linen. And then, with Vian almost holding his breath with fascination, the otter brought the dagger in close to the young mouse's body and began to teach the young mouse how to wield the blade.

Vian was not aware of passing time. All he knew was that he was experiencing a strange happiness, and an unbending strength and courage. The swishing sound of the dagger's blade slicing through the air was like music to him. The cold steel touching his claws felt like icy fire. He twirled the blade as if in a trance, imagining himself on a battlefield with a thousand foes before him. Clad in shining armor and wielding a fantastic sword, Vian charged heedlessly at his foe, cutting and hacking. He dodged a spearthrust and sent a single blow down on the spear's wielder, who fell in a crumpled heap. Spinning on his heel, Vian brought down a fox with a sweep of his sword. Two rats crept up on him from behind, but the ever-alert warriormouse dodged yet again and brought them down with two mighty swings. Just as he felled the rats, a stoat popped up on his left and rushed at him. Vian spun to face this new threat, meeting it with calm determination. The sword flashed as –

"Whoa there, easy now!"

Vian felt a strong paw grip his wrist, and Ruggar's strong, kindly voice shattered his imaginings as he barely restrained Vian from chopping a pillow into oblivion. Indeed, a large rip had already formed down the center of the fluffy bundle, and a large number of feathers floated on the gentle breeze that flowed from the open window.

Vian looked anxiously at Ruggar, worried that he was standing on the threshold of another scolding. On the contrary, Ruggar was smiling at him with a kind of proud light in his eyes. The otter gently uncurled Vian's paw from the dagger hilt, murmuring softly as he did so, "Ye 'ave th' makings of an excellent warrior, Vian. Ye jus' got a little carried away there." His face creased in a smile. "Fighting, eh?"

Vian was pleasantly surprised at how well the otter could read his thoughts and actions. He nodded, lifting one eyebrow at Ruggar in an unspoken question.

Ruggar noticed the gesture and his eyes twinkled. "Oh, I was much th' same when I was yer age. Everyday objects were things t' be watched an' guarded, 'cause ye ne'er knew when they might stab ye in th' back." His face momentarily lost its merry look. "Prob'lem was, ole' Abbess Kalinette was very much against weapons. She didn't approve o' me 'playactin'', as she called it, an' I couldn't take th' restrictions that she put on me an' I finally upped and left." He gazed fondly at Vian. "Ye're in a different situation, though. Ye're jus' thought o' as a troublemaker who'll prob'ly chop th' tableleg off as soon as lift a blade. I'll see what I can do t' git th' Father Abbott t' allow ye t' git some weapon practice."

Vian's eyes shone. He looked down at the blade in his paw, allowing one claw to slide down the glittering edge. "_Me? Being trained as a warrior? I've always dreamed – but I couldn't! I'm just not – but it felt so . . . right when I was using it . . . could I really be called to be a warrior?_"

Ruggar could see the mixed thoughts and emotions running across the young mouse's face, and he placed a sturdy paw against his friend's back to ease any stress. But before he could speak, the Matthias and Methuselah bells began to ring. The pair, so calm and relaxed a moment ago, leaped to their paws and dashed to the window to see what the commotion was about.

The heavy oaken gates that barricaded Redwall's main entrance were slowly opening. Nocan, Drung, and one or two of the pitifully few resident fighters stood nearby, at ease but ready for trouble. And the cry was echoing between the four outer walls of the abbey, "Visitors at the gates!"

_

* * *

Well, what did you think? Gloomy? Boring? Awesome? Interesting? REVIEW AND TELL ME!!! PLEASE!!!_

_This chapter is done from Vian's point of view, and as he is quite a bit of a pessimist, this chapter was necessarily gloomy. Not to worry, a very interesting character is going to be introduced next chapter, and the mood will be necessarily lighter._

_A note about Vian; he is the main character in this story, but his is an interesting tale to write because he is, besides fighting the main villain (you might recognize him/her, heh heh), also battling himself. He is like Jade TeaLeaf's character Brink to a certain extent (if you've read __The Chains That Bind Us__; highly advise it). He broods over his problems (as you've seen in this chapter), but he doesn't really try to fix them – at least, not yet, he's got to learn how. He's got to figure out a way around these obstacles before he can reach his goal, and even then it's highly likely that he's not going to make it. Okay, I'm about to give away the storyline, so I'm going to shut my trap. ;-)_

_I hate to say this, but until the beginning of June, my chapter postings will be rather inconsistent. Lots of things, the least of which is definitely not school, is starting to wrap me up. Let's just say that I have a LOT of things going on this half of the school year, so don't expect much out of me until school gets out. And to top that lot off, our computer has been acting up lately, and I'm afraid it might crash. So if I seem to die at some point and don't put anything up for two months, that's probably what happened._

_Oh, and thanks to Jade TeaLeaf for the encouragement on this VERY don-in-the-dumps chapter! :-D_

_Until next time!_

_~Foeseeker~_


	4. The Troupe

_3: The Troupe_

Vian could feel his paw still gripping the linen-wrapped hilt of Ruggar's dagger as he watched the gates opening. This was a very uncommon occurrence; visitors were almost unknown to Redwall in these peaceful times. Rarely did the Matthias and Methuselah bells ring to welcome a new face to the redstone walled haven.

A small wagon, painted a brilliant green and roofed with a cover of yellow cloth, rolled in through the oaken gates. Between the shafts were two powerful-looking hedgehogs, each a perfect recapitulation of the other. A tall, muscular otter with white fur strode easily alongside the wagon, while a squirrel balanced easily along the wagon-cover ridgepole. Vian thought he could just see two mice and another creature inside the wagon, while a mole lounged comfortably on a low bench at the front of the vehicle.

The sound of Ruggar grunting in surprise made Vian turn to look at his friend. The otter's eyebrows were raised, his brown eyes glittering in pleased astonishment. Vian just heard him mutter, "What in the name of seasons is Fallon doing here? He's supposed to be living in Sourthsward!"

Vian, completely oblivious and unconcerned with Ruggar's mutterings, tugged on his friend's paw, motioning towards the door. _"Come on Ruggar, let's go see them!"_

Ruggar glanced at him and smiled. He stood upright, removing his weight from the windowsill and grasping Vian's small paw in his own large one. "D'ye want t' go down an' meet 'em, mate?"

Vian smiled broadly, an unusual occurrence, excitedly gripping Ruggar's paw as they headed down to the lawns. Unconsciously, the young mouse had such a firm grip on the otter's paw that Ruggar, the scarred, weathered traveler, flinched at the pressure.

When they emerged from the redstone building out onto the smooth green turf, a curious sight greeted their eyes. A large number of the Redwallers, including Abbott Bernal, had also come to see the strangers. A pack of dibbuns, followed as usual by frantic minders, charged across the grass, shouting and yelling like banshees. Some of the teen-seasoned abbey residents watched from a distance, trying to put on a cool, unconcerned air that they thought fit for an adult beast. The pitifully small group of battle-trained beasts, including Noccan and Skipper Drung, stood close to the wagon and its occupants. Noccan was talking with the white-furred otter, while Drung stood easily beside the two hedgehogs that had been pulling the wagon.

Ruggar steered Vian towards the Gatehouse. Vian was brimming with excitement to see the strangers, but sensibly he saw Ruggar's point in getting to a place above the rest of the abbeydwellers. The pair was about to ascend the stairs leading up to the Gatehouse door when a commotion broke out behind the wagon.

Three young dibbuns had broken away from the rest, dashing around to the rear of the wagon. One, a young squirrelmaid named Kanni, had scrambled up on the lip that ran along under the tailgate of the wagon and stood up. She had taken fright at something, and was wavering precariously on the narrow strip of wood. The other two dibbuns, a mole and a hedgehog, were yelling their heads off as they danced about madly.

Ruggar took off at a lightning pace for Kanni; Vian stuck close to his protector's heels. However, the pair was stopped in their tracks as a dark brown paw, streaked with black and very square and solid, flashed out and hooked fearsome claws into Kanni's dress front. A moment later another paw reached out, and the two paws gripped Kanni firmly under the arms and lowered the dibbun to the ground. In doing so, the beast's head and shoulders also emerged from under the wagon cover.

Vian had never seen a creature like this before, and he studied the beast closely. He heard Ruggar gasp in shock, and wondered if he had seen a beast like this in the past. It was not an extremely tall creature, barely full grown, with dark brown fur that was heavily streaked with black. The creature's build was rather square and solid, and Vian could make out the smooth rippling of muscles under the creature's coat. A pair of blue eyes glittered out of a square, solid-jawed face that had tufts of long fur on its cheeks. The ears were rather like a fox's, for they were pointed set well back on the creature's head, but they were the same dark brown as the rest of the strange beast. The paws that gripped Kanni gently but firmly were not extraordinarily large, but they were sinewy and well muscled. Claws unlike any Vian had ever seen before tipped each digit on the paws.

Noccan and Drung, having heard the dibbuns' uproar, came charging around the corner of the wagon, followed closely by the white-furred otter. The warrior of Redwall had his sword out in an instant when he spotted the creature, his grey eyes flashing as he snarled at the otter, "What's this – this _cat_ doing with you, waterdog?"

The white otter looked unusually relaxed, even with the small group of fighters bristling around him. "That's Meesha, one o' our troupe's most talented members. She wouldn't 'urt a fly; don't worry about 'er."

Drung stepped forward, a knife glittering in his paw as her growled, "She's a cat, for goodness' sake! Cats're vermin! Either get 'er out o' 'ere or ye don't come in!"

Vian was startled when Ruggar spoke up. The battlescarred traveler was the only Redwaller who seemed to be somewhat at ease, although he kept giving the cat anxious glances. "Ye can trust Fallon, mates. 'E's as truthful a beast as you'll ever meet, an' 'e wouldn't permit a vermin to travel with 'im if'n it wasn't a goodbeast."

The white otter, Fallon, looked up with a pleased grin. "Ruggar! What are ye doin' 'ere?"

Drung stared suspiciously from one to the other. "'Ow d'ye two know each other?"

Ruggar and Fallon shook paws heartily, Ruggar explaining. "It was about ten seasons ago, an' I wandered down inter th' Southsward area. 'E was livin' in a quiet liddle village near th' castle – you know what I'm talkin' about, right? The castle where Mariel an' Dandin an' Mariel's dad 'ad a nice battle with th' foxwolf? Anyway, I spent nigh on four seasons down there, got to be almost a member of th' family, as it were. Couldn't stick around forever, though – I was a wanderer back then. We were good pals; spent a lot o' time together."

Vian realized with a start that Drung was staring from his brother to the white otter with narrowed eyes. There was something unusual in the Skipper's face; Vian studied it closely. Jealousy, perhaps? He knew that Ruggar and Drung had been close as young ones, but when Ruggar left Drung had still felt that bond. Had Ruggar forgotten their past closeness in his strong friendship with Fallon? An uncomfortable knot began to grow in the young mouse's stomach.

The weather-beaten traveler seemed unaware of his brother's discomfort. He was talking earnestly to Noccan, smoothing the warrior's ruffled temper. The grey-furred squirrel seemed to be calming down, although he still kept a grip on the sword. He gave the wildcat a swift glance. "Well, I suppose she can come in, but mind you, I'll be keeping my eye on her. An' if she causes trouble . . ." He narrowed his eyes threateningly and flicked his sword.

The white otter grinned casually. "Don't worry about Meesha – ye'll never meet a gent'ler beast." He waved to his paw to his doubtful cohort. "C'mon Meesha, come an' meet these 'ere Redwallers."

The cat leaped nimbly over the back of the wagon and stood beside Fallon. She was not a tall creature, easily no taller than Abbott Burnal and certainly shorter than any cat Vian had ever heard of. However, she was clearly full grown, at least eighteen seasons, and with such a pleasant, merry face that Vian liked her at once. She looked like the plump, merry type, but still carried a young, carefree air. She shook hands with Ruggar, Skipper Drung, and Noccan, smiling plesently. "Pleased t' meet ye, I'm sure," she said to each as she clasped their paws.

To Vian's surprise, she then turned to the mute youngster with the same brilliant smile. "And who is this?"

Drung and Noccan opened their mouths to launch into the usual description that went along with Vian's name, but Ruggar broke in before they were able to pronounce a syllable. "This is Vian, miz; 'e's an orphan, but I'm keepin' a good eye on 'im." He grinned at Vian.

Vian's small grey-brown frame seemed to grow a few inches at the confirmation of what he had been hoping for, but what he hadn't dreamed would actually come true. His brown eyes shone as he grinned back at his friend. Ruggar, his guardian? _"Thank you, Martin!"_

But even as his heart soared at this announcement, he saw Drung's face out of the corner of his eye. The Skipper looked even unhappier at this news; his dark walnut-colored pelt seemed to bristle at Ruggar's proclamation. His face showed no emotion, except for his eyes, which narrowed into ominous slits. Vian's heart skipped a beat. Surely Ruggar and Drung wouldn't have a falling out, would they?

A middle-aged feminine voice from inside the wagon interrupted his thoughts. "Fallon, ye ole' chatterbox, can we git out o' this wagon an' stretch our legs?"

The white otter chuckled. He spoke rapidly, sounding much like a stream bubbling and skipping over rapids and waterfalls. "Yes, ye both can. Friends, these are th' Rovin' Troupe of Mossflower's dancers, Rala an' 'er daughter Cora."

Two female mice slid off the tailgate and landed gracefully on the dusty ground beside Fallon and Meesha. The elder of the pair was a soft dusty brown with green eyes and a motherly air. The other, a lovely slate gray thing with sparkling blue eyes, was somewhere between seven and eight seasons with a slight tilt to her chin. Vian locked eyes with her for a moment, but then she looked away. Vian felt her gaze rest on his scar for a moment, and then she turned away with a sniff of disdain. The young mouse's throat tightened with anger and resentment.

Fallon, ignorant of the silent exchange that had just taken place between the two young mice, continued his rapid flow of speech. "Th' two hedgehogs up front are twin brothers, Thor an' Thair, an' th' pretty squirrel up on top o' th' wagon is none other 'n our balancing artist, Robin. Th' mole at th' front o' th' wagon is Rurful, Mossflower's most spectacular magician. An' o' course I'm Fallon, th' Travelin' Troupe's leadin' actor, performer, dancer, singer, an' all-'round leader!"

Rala gave the white otter's paw a slap, although her eyes twinkled with good humor. She spoke with a touch of northern accent which was new to Vian. "Och, ye great wee braggart, all th' beast from 'ere t' Salamandastron go runnin' ev'ry time ye start singin'. An' as t' ye're dancin' – 'tis like watchin' a frog wi' one leg tryin' t' hop across th' river!"

Chuckles broke out in the group of Redwallers, and the ice was broken. To Vian's surprise, Abbot Burnal stepped up from where he had been listening unobserved in the background and extended a paw to Fallon. "Welcome travelers, welcome! It has been many a day since Redwall has seen such a large group of strangers. Do come in; my Redwallers will help you unload your wagon."

Fallon shook the Father Abbot's paw heartily. "Thankee, mate – er, Father Abbot, if'n I'm not mistaken. We're quite grateful fer your 'elp, an' we'll be obliged to do whatever ye want us t' do t' repay ye. Provided, of course, that it's performin'; we're precious scarce o' talent fer anythin' else in our troupe."

Abbot Bernal smiled. "Of course, my friend. Why don't you come with me and we'll discuss the terms of service, as it will. Noccan, Drung, you two are in charge here. Make sure those dibbuns don't go throwing themselves all over that wagon! And send someone to fetch some refreshment for our guests."

As the Redwallers set about the tasks they were assigned, Vian noticed Layvi sidle up to Cora and say something to her in that fashion that Vian had come to hate; he stood next to the young mousemaid, not turning his head but slanting his glittering blue eyes so that he was staring strait at her. He leaned casually against the wagon, his golden fur stirring almost suavely in the light breeze, murmuring demurely to her out of the corner of his mouth. Vian clenched his fists. What was that showoff up to now?

His answer came a moment later when Cora delicately placed her slate-blue paw in Layvi's golden one and practically waltzed away across the lawn, her nose angled at a primly annoying tilt. _"Great. Just great,"_ Vian thought bitterly. _"Now that yellow-furred, yellow-livered bigwig has an accomplice who's almost as good as he is at torturing me!"_

His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy paw descending on his shoulder. He spun around, half expecting to see one of Layvi's minions there, but instead locked eyes with the brilliant blue gaze of Meesha. The young cat – Vian was surprised that one of her stocky build and well-muscled frame would be in a troupe – smiled at the mute youngster. "Hi there! I saw you earlier – Vian, correct? – and I was wondering why most of the other Redwallers seem skittish of you."

There was such warmth and pure-heartedness in her voice and eyes that Vian warmed to her at once. He smiled, opening his mouth to tell her how – nice she was. But, as usual, no sound came out. His paw flashed angrily to his throat, and just as quickly he lowered it again. Lifting his chin, he pointed to the silver scar that ran lengthwise midway between his chin and shoulders, painfully obvious against his grey-brown fur.

For a half second Meesha seemed confused, but then her eyes cleared and she smiled sadly. "Ah, I see. Well, why don't you come help us unload the wagon? We could use a strong beast such as you!"

Vian felt a rush of embarrassed surprise. But he padded obediantly after her as she strolled easily back towards the wagon. As he followed her, the young mouse noticed for the first time that no tail peeped from beneath her kilt hem. He tapped her on the shoulder, pointing from his tail to her back and lifting an eyebrow.

Meesha laughed; a sweet, tinkling sound that sounded like silver bluebells tinkling together. "Oh, yes. I'm a bobcat, a kind of wildcat from across the sea. My parents were corsairs, so that's how I got here to Mossflower."

Excited by the chance for a good story, Vian raced ahead of his new friend to the wagon. _"Ooh, I hope she'll tell her story this evening at supper!"_

††

But there he was out of luck. Abbot Bernal had requested Fallon for he and his troupe to put on a performance for the Redwallers, and the white otter had agreed eagerly. Supper was served in Great Hall, and a large space was left clear just in front of the tapestry of Martin the Warrior for the performers. On the opposite side of the room a large buffet had been set up so that creatures could serve themselves at their leisure. Adjoining the cleared space against the wall was a small area that had been set aside with curtains supported between columns and wall hooks. The Traveling Troupe had retired into this little space while the Redwallers gathered for the meal and entertainment. Rurful, the mole magician, was already moving about through the crowd performing tricks for various groups of Redwallers.

Once everybeast was seated, Fallon emerged from the makeshift room. He was dressed in a fantastic silver-colored jacket with sleeves that extended to his wrists and an unusual back, tailored so that the ends reached down to the backs of his knees. This extended back was split in twain from the trailing end to the otter's waist. Fallon also carried what looked like a whip, coiled neatly into a circle and gripped easily in his paw. He tipped a silver cap with a white feather to the audience, a roguish smile on his face. "G'evenin', ladies an' gents! It is a great honor t' be 'ere with ye t'night, ann' I hope ye'll greatly enjoy our performance." His paw flashed out, and the sound of the whip popping in the air I want to present t' ye first the two mighty brothers, Thor an' Thair!"

The two immense hedgehogs bounded out onto the makeshift stage, growling and flexing their arms to show just how much muscle they had and how ferocious they were. Both wore only a kilt of green, red, and white, and had white bands fastened around their foreheads. They grabbed Fallon by the lower legs and straitened, so that the white otter was standing on their paws. To Vian's astonishment Fallon did not fall, or even sway to keep his balance. He smiled at the audience. "Well, what d'ye think? These two are th' strongest beasts in th' forest, an' could outwrestle a young badger. An' not only are they strong; they're two of th' finest acrobats you'll ever see. But wait 'till ye see their performance!"

Thor and Thair set Fallon easily down, and the white otter moved off to one side. Somewhere behind the curtain a flute began to play a rapid, tumbling melody as Thor dropped onto his left knee, and Thair easily clambered onto his paws and balanced easily. Thor pushed with his right footpaw, taking the full strain of his own weight and his brother's on it as he heaved himself upright. As soon as he was high enough, he evened out the pressure onto both footpaws.

The Redwallers cheered and applauded as Thor strode easily around the stage, Thair standing almost casually on his twin brother's paws. Neither ever swayed or lost their balance in the slightest; neither showed any sign of tentativeness or hesitation in their movements. It was an astonishing display. Vian was astonished at their balance and dexterity, not to mention their strength and muscle.

Thor made three circuits of the stage without showing any sign of strain, then knelt again to allow Thair to leap easily, albeit somewhat clumsily due to his bulk, to the floor. The performance was repeated, this time with Thair carrying Thor. Then Fallon entered again with Meesha, carrying between them a long board painted green with red and white patterns stenciled onto it. As they strode to the front of the stage the flute stopped playing.

Fallon motioned to the pair of hedgehogs, who lifted the board and placed it on a pair of low barrels, one at each end, while allowing about two arms' lengths to extend over. As they did this Fallon turned towards the audience. "This, me friends, is somethin' ye'll never see anywhere else but in th' Travelin' Troupe! But we need your help. How many o' ye dibbuns 'd like a liddle ride?"

The pack of abbeybabes erupted with a cheer, pushing and scrambling to get onto the stage first. They thronged around Fallon, all chorusing, "Me! Me! Me!"

Fallon laughed. "Only a thirty an' four? We might need to call up some o' th' older beast afore this is finished! Now, will all o' ye young 'uns climb up on that board an' sit nice an' quiet an' still? That's it! Meesha, Thor, Thair, lend 'em a paw, will ye?"

Fallon's three companions paced up and down the long board, assisting the dibbuns up onto the board. When they had finished and all thirty-four dibbuns were seated somehow on the board, Thor and Thair went to stand at either end of it, while Meesha strode over to the edge of the stage where a kind of drum had been set up. It was little more than a barrel with both ends sawed off, a piece of canvas stretched tightly over the upper end and the lower end held a few pawswidths off the ground by blocks of wood. The young bobcat picked up two stout sticks with padded ends that had been resting on the top of the drum; the drumsticks. She held these in readiness as she turned to watch Fallon.

The white otter waited until his three cohorts were standing waiting for him to continue; then he turned to the two hedgehog brothers. "Are ye ready?"

Thor and Thair nodded solemnly, crouching to put their shoulders under the extending ends of the board. This was apparently a signal, for Meesha began a light yet steady roll on the drum. This seemed to be the fuel for the air to suddenly crackle with tension and apprehension. Vian, sitting comfortably in the second row of tables, felt his fur stand on end at the excitement that flashed between the Redwallers.

Then a cheer went up as Thor and Thair straitened and strode across the stage, all of the dibbuns cheering wildly and wriggling like landed fish in their excitement. Meesha began a cheerful rat-tat-tat on the drum, while Fallon roared over the noise of the applauding Redwallers, "Now that's a pair of strong beast fer ye, mates! An' I've seen 'em both carry that number alone, an' with far more active youngsters. Oi there, young miss, don't go climbin' on Thair's head; ye'll get yer paws full o' prickles. Good sir, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't do that; ye're going t' fall an' 'urt yerself."

The two hedgehogs paraded once around the stage with their impressive burden, then set the squealing babes down. Amid choruses for another ride from the dibbuns and thunderous applause from the audience, Fallon drew the Redwallers' attention to the upper reaches of the Great Hall.

Somehow two trapezes had been set up hanging from the rafters, and somewhat higher than the trapezes a tightrope was stretched between the two columns that flanked Martin's tapestry. On this latter prop was the squirrel Robin, her scarlet fur matching almost eerily with the redstone walls of the Hall. Her travel-worn, slightly faded green jerkin from earlier in the day had been replaced with a more decorative tunic of emerald green. Its sleeves were mere broad straps that ran over her shoulders, with no material covering her arms so as to give her flexibility and an added element of safety while performing. A belt of white linen circled her waist, and on her wrists and ankles were slim circles of golden braid. The same braid decorated the neck and hem of the tunic, giving the squirrel an air of garnished confidence. All in all, she looked very capable and relaxed as she stepped easily out onto the thin tightrope.

Gasps of awe came from even the most agile Redwall squirrel as Robin skipped almost casually along the seemingly yarn-thin rope. Her paws appeared to fly over the thin string, placing themselves perfectly one before the other; so neatly and swiftly, in fact, that she seemed to be dancing over the deadly void beneath her. It was a perfect ballet of coordination and poise.

As she reached the far end, Robin suddenly seemed to stumble, teetering. A shriek rang out from one of the Redwallers as she fell headlong, twisting gracefully as she seemed to hover for a moment, then plunged towards the floor. Vian clapped a paw over his mouth and more cries and gasps of alarm rang out as the red and green blended together into a single blur, speeding towards the stone floor like a plummeting stone.

Then Robin was swinging upward again on one of the trapezes, soaring like an eagle on a breeze. Again cries of astonishment echoed around the Hall as she swung to the zenith of her momentum, then rushed towards the floor again, this time _backwards_. With a twist the red squirrelmaid hurled herself into the air again, performing a somersault and catching her legs over the bar of the other trapeze. Back and forth she went between the two trapezes and the tightrope, performing various aerial stunts and feats until Fallon stepped forward, cracking his whip and smiling.

"Thankee, thankee, friends! Robin, c'mon down an' let 'em give ye yer due!"

Thunderous applause broke out as Robin swung down to the floor by a rope that had previously been hidden behind a column and bowed deeply, merely blinking her lusterous green eyes at the ovation that was given her. Vian was astonished at her modesty – or was it smugness? He couldn't tell.

Even as Robin stepped back into the curtained off area, Meesha, Cora, and Rala swept out onto the stage. Cora and her mother wore matching pastel blue dresses, each trimmed with a small sprig of tiny white flowers at the neck. Meesha wore a rich sky-blue skirt that might have passed for a kilt. Over her chest was a simple but elegant tunic of snow white, with sleeves that came down to just below her shoulder and trim along the hem of the sleeves and collar.

The young bobcat held a strange wooden instrument in her paws; it had strings and a neck like a fiddle, but it was rounder underneath and had a queer teardrop shape. Six strings spanned the length of the half arms' length instrument, and a hole gaped in the center just before a thin strip of wood that supported the strings. Meesha plucked the strings with her claws, creating a fine, melodic strum-plunk, thrum-plunk, strum-plunk that reverberated pleasantly through the Hall. Behind the curtain a flute picked up the tune, floating over the music of Meesha's instrument and intertwining with it to form a perfect harmony. A faint thud-thud came from the drum near the curtain, where one of the hedgehog twins had begun a light tapping on it with his paw.

As the music glided into its full swell, Rala and Cora began to dance. Their movements fit the music; calm, flowing, soft. They glided like feathers on the wind across the stage, spinning and swaying so gracefully that they could have been water moving lazily along on a cool spring afternoon. "Oohs" and "ahs" came from the audience, for no Redwaller had ever seen dancing quite like this. Vian wanted to applaud the dancers, but the silence was so breathtaking in itself as the music wove its way through the assembled Redwallers that he quickly lost any impulse to do so.

Meesha continued her steady thrumming on her instrument for some moments; then, when she deemed the time right, she gave an extra twang to the lowest string and began to sing. Her voice was deeper than Vian had expected; it reminded him of the wind through willow branches, husky, but not dry. Here and there a Redwaller began to sway sleepily to the music, and Vian was quickly brought under its spell as Meesha's voice floated out through the Hall.

Seasons pass,  
Time goes on.  
But hearts forever stay true.  
Stars gleam eternal,  
O'er this passing world,  
And they remember well

The great ones past,  
The lights to come  
That will bring new life here.  
Storms bring dark,  
Rain brings life,  
And heroes come to save.

A haze shrouds us,  
Hiding coming things,  
But do not be afraid.  
We stand as one,  
United at heart,  
And good triumphs all.

Suns rise,  
Moons set,  
And light is a passing thing.  
But one will rise,  
Who will light the way  
To a great, glorious day.

The great ones past,  
The lights to come  
That will bring new life here.  
Storms bring dark,  
Rain brings life,  
And heroes come to save.

And heroes come to save.

_

* * *

Okay guys, I am SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO sorry for such a late update! I don't know what got into me, but this was a strangely difficult chapter. Okay, maybe the frantic cleaning for relatives visiting for Easter, the play practices that are fun but take an ETERNITY, and the getting ready for the baby that'll be born tomorrow (Monday) kind of got in the way too. Oh, and a little something called SCHOOL._

_So, what did you think of the chapter? Please don't complain about the late update; I'm going to warn you all right now that I won't be updating much/regularly until June 1 for many many many different reasons. Especially in the next two weeks. I have a rehearsal for my school musical from 10am to 10pm on Monday, and from 3pm to 10pm for the next three days. Then we have performances, and then I have school, and then more performances, then the stage cleanup, then school – arrgh! Arrgh arrgh arrgh! I wish we were allowed to bring laptops to my school, but I have homework and a Latin project I might as well finish anyway._

_So do please tell me what you thought, and if you can come up for a better name for the troupe than the Traveling Troupe, message it to me and I just might use it; kudos to you! I ran out of brain juice for that idea._

_This was a filler chapter, but all the Troupe members will play a large role in the story. Also, there was a bit of foreshadowing in the song, as well as a few mistakes about the Redwall world at that time. I put them in on purpose because – okay, I need to zip my lip or else I'll give away the storyline._

_Characters that need feedback (checklist XP):_

_Fallon_

_Cora_

_Meesha_

_Vian_

_Layvi_

_Ruggar_

_Abbot Bernal_

_And anyone else you want to add to the list! Robin's a maybe; she's going to be very fun in future chapters._

_Okay, I'm sick and tired of all my wailing about no time on this author's notes here, so God bless and happy Easter!_

_~Foeseeker~_


	5. Spectral Blade

_4: Spectral Blade_

"Steady now, keep that wrist firm. Don't slack off on that left paw there, or yer grip won't be tight enough t' keep it steady. All right, now swing!"

_Fffsssssst!_

The wooden practice sword sliced through the air, the sound of the dulled blade cutting the breeze like music to Vian's ears. His grip was strong on the linen-bound hilt, but his right elbow was too tight to his chest and he only grazed the straw bundle that was serving as the practice target. A wisp of straw fluttered into the air as the young mouse spun around with the power of his swing, his miss and the resulting force bringing him halfway to his knees. With a muted growl of rage Vian hurled the wooden sword to the ground, gnashing his teeth with fury. That had to be the billionth time he had missed that morning, two days after the troupe's performance.

Ruggar was standing behind his young friend, watching the pitiful results of his careful instructions with a look of restrained exasperation on his face. Suppressing a sigh, he picked up the sword and held it out to Vian. "'Ere matey, have just one more go. Come on, just one?"

In response Vian bared his teeth in a grimace of fury, stamping his paws. _"I am so FED UP with this training! Why can't I just use a real sword for once?!"_ He knew this was a dim-witted question and that he wasn't ready to handle a real blade yet, but his mental ranting was the only way he was allowed to vent his rage. So he gave full force to it. _"Why can't I just use a real sword for once?! I'm sick and tired of being treated like a brainless idiot who doesn't know how to handle a blade! All I want is one chance – just ONE LITTLE CHANCE – to actually use a real sword! Why can't you –"_

"Having some trouble?"

Vian and Ruggar spun around to see Meesha striding towards them. The pretty brown and black bobcat was wearing only a simple grey tunic that came down to her knees and a piece of clean rope around her waist as a belt. Her expression was unperturbed as she glanced from Vian to Ruggar, repeating her question. "Having trouble?"

The big greying otter looked ready to defend his mentoring skills when he glanced at the ground and the bits of bruised, crushed straw that had been plucked from the target bundle in Vian's many botched swings. With a sigh he grunted resignedly, "Yep we are, an' I think we're both ready t' give it up!"

Meesha's eyes widened in surprise. "What? But you've only just started!"

Vian flexed his paw; his raging desire to strike something or someone was only just being restrained. He forced himself to relax a bit as Ruggar replied bitterly, "But we're not gettin' anywhere; we might as well just give it up."

Meesha let out an exclamation of dismay. "Giving up is surrender! You don't strike me as a beast who would just give something up at the snap of the fingers, Ruggar."

The otter's eyes flashed. "Then I guess ye don't know me very well, eh?"

Meesha gave a snort of exasperation. Abruptly she stooped and picked up the wooden sword that Vian had flung to the ground and pressed it into the young mouse's paw, standing just behind him and reaching around him to guide his body into the correct positions. Vian tried to wriggle away, but she held his paws firmly and he was astonished at the power behind her grip.

"Now," Meesha said calmly after Vian had finished his struggles, "Move your left paw below your right – yes, like that – and relax your shoulders. If you hunch them up against your ears every time you get ready to swing the tendons'll get accustomed to that position; they'll be sore for weeks and won't relax unless you stretch them, which will really hurt. Now, put one footpaw just in front of the other to help you keep your balance and rotate your shoulders in the opposite direction to that which you'll be swinging in. Good job! Now, I'm going to guide you through one swing, and then you can try it on your own."

Ruggar started to protest, but Meesha ignored him. Vian felt a bit indignant to the indifference she was showing his guardian, but by now his anger had subsided to intense interest.

The bobcat guided his upper body and arms backward into a twisted position, ready to uncoil and put the force of his weight as well as his muscle into the coming blow. The young mouse shifted his grip slightly on the hilt of the wooden sword, instantly feeling relaxed tension in his upper arm as he turned his paw into a more natural position.

With a _swish_ Meesha swung the sword, and Vian's upper body and arms, strait at the target. There was a satisfying _whomp _and straw flew widespread into the air, the bundle teetering dangerously as it rocked from the force of the blow. Vian felt the power the blow had created transfer into the straw, then rebound and come back into the sword, trembling up his arms and into his body. He moved a bit back in the direction he had started from, and the stress on the practice weapon eased. Fantasy images of vermin charging at him with drawn weapons, the sound of clashing blades, the screams and cries of battle filled his head, and for a moment he felt giddy with excitement. His dream of being a warrior was so close – so _close_! If only he could do that again . . .

Meesha released his paws and stepped back. "All right, try by yourself."

Vian gritted his teeth as he shifted his body back into the starting position Meesha had shown him. After that last blow, he couldn't give up. Not when he had seen his dream of handling a real weapon so close. Lowering his shoulders and placing one footpaw slightly in front of the other as Meesha had instructed him, he twisted his body back into the kinetic position with his upper body curled into a shape not unlike a coiled spring. Closing one eye halfway, he weighed up the straw target. Then he swung, hearing the _swish_ of air around the wooden blade as he held his breath, praying that –

_WHUMP!_

The powerful blow to the center of the straw bundle sent it crashing to the ground, bits of straw flying into the air. To Vian's great pleasure he saw that a pawful of stems that had received the primary chop of the blunt wooden sword had been severed cleanly in twain. The young mouse pulled his arms in a bit closer to his body as the impact reverberated through them, absorbing it and transferring it into his muscles in preparation for another blow.

But that never happened. What did happen was Ruggar gave him a hefty clap on the back that almost knocked him down, and the young mouse's ears burned as Meesha exclaimed, "That's got to be the best swing I've ever seen performed first try with that technique! Fantastic display, Vian!"

Ruggar smiled as he saw the embarrassed look in his protégé's face. "Don't flatter 'im too much Meesha, or 'e'll get prideful."

Vian spent the next quarter hour building his accuracy – and his confidence. With blow after blow landing squarely on the quickly deteriorating straw target, Vian felt freer than he ever had. His thoughts ran wild as he swung again and again, the song of the wind around the wooden sword like no song he had ever heard before. _"This is – unbelievable! With a blade at my side and training in my head, I could live without a care!"_

He was disappointed when Ruggar laid a paw on his shoulder, saying, "Great job Vian; ye've done an excellent job for today, an' we'll pick up 'ere next training session. Will ye take th' target an' sword back t' th' shed? I'd like t' 'ave a word with Meesha, if'n ye don't mind."

Vian nodded in agreement, gathering up the wooden practice sword and the battered straw bundle to be placed back in the small shed that was used to store the articles needed for battle training. As he trotted off, for once contentedly performing an assigned duty, he heard Ruggar say to Meesha, "That was an amazin' change ye worked there, missy; I've never seen any kind o' trainin' worked that quickly in me life, an' I've seen some pretty good trainin', believe me. That was a new technique to me, the way ye 'ad 'im put one footpaw in front of the other and move 'is left paw below 'is right. Where'd ye pick that up?"

Meesha chuckled; Vian by now could barely hear her, as he was rounding the corner to the back garden behind the eastern wall of the main abbey building. "It's a long story, let me tell you . . ."

Not being the type to hang around listening to stories, Vian trotted away from the chattering pair to the old garden shed that had been converted into a storage place for the battle training equipment. The place fascinated him. There were large bundles of straw for targets propped in the corners, racks of wooden swords, bows and blunted arrows on hooks, spears and javelins bundled into sheaves, and a few real weapons stored with utmost care on brackets and wall hooks. Vian's favorites out of all these tools were a pair of light fencing sabers and a small broadsword, all three blunted to semi-harmless edges but still real swords nonetheless.

As Vian hung up the wooden practice sword and pushed the straw target into its corner, he couldn't resist casting a swift glance at the broadsword. It gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the slightly ajar door. Vian's paws tingled. If he could only hold it, just once . . .

Before he knew it he was standing beside it, gingerly lifting its polished blade from the brackets that supported it. Gripping the leather-bound hilt the way Meesha had taught him – right paw over the left – Vian tested its weight. It was heavy, but not too heavy, to his minutely trained muscles. Enthralled, the young mouse lifted it until it was horizontal and slowly moved it from side to side, captivated by the gleaming silver colored blade and the effortless way it seemed to glide through the air.

Vian lowered the tip of the sword until it touched the plank floor. _"Is this how a real warrior feels? So – energized by holding a blade?"_ he wondered. He wanted to swing the blade, to use it against something – or somebeast. He closed his eyes, imagining the sensation of the blade sliding through fur, through flesh, through bone –

"Vian! Why are you desiring death?!"

Vian gasped, almost jumping out of his skin. He looked about wildly for whomsoever had spoken to him. The voice had been so – firm, so knowing – as if the creature could read his mind.

But there was no one.

Confused, the young mouse searched the shed. Again, nobeast. Now thoroughly bewildered, Vian stood in the middle of the shed, scratching his ear in puzzlement. Who could have said that so close to him and then slipped outside before he could spot them? How could they have known what he was thinking? Or was it just his own conscience rebuking his bloodthirsty thoughts? That would make sense; having been raised with Redwallian standards, trained to avoid battle and violence like the plague.

That must be it. That had to be it. Unless he was going crazy and hearing things . . .

Vian shook off _that_ thought quickly and hastily put the sword back on its brackets, scurrying out of the shed and slamming the door behind him. His spine was still tingling from that voice, and he hastened inside to find some work to occupy his mind.

††

But the thought of the voice kept nagging him. For days it nagged at him; during battle training, during meals, during kitchen duty, during chores out in the garden, even in his dreams at night in the dormitory. It got to a point that it seemed about to drive him crazy. Even when the troupe left a week after that first battle training session, Vian found it hard to bid Meesha a suitable goodbye. He stood gazing unfocused at her as she said cheerfully that she would see him at the next midsummer festival. Even when the cart started up with the two hedgehog brothers between the shafts and the whole troupe taking up a farewell song, the young mouse wasn't paying much attention.

Then he was jolted out of his stupor by two sky-blue eyes entering his vision. Cora was staring at him, her gaze cold as she fingered the necklace of coral beads Layvi had given her. Vian felt himself grow hot. He felt trapped in those sky-colored globes, his head screaming to look away but his eyes unable to do so. Fury surged through him as she lifted a paw mockingly in farewell, and he took a pace forward with some hotheaded idea of dragging her down from that lofty perch of hers on the back of the cart and showing her how a real Redwall warrior treated creatures who made mock of them.

"You're letting your pride get the better of you!"

Vian skittered backward, looking around wildly for the speaker. The only beasts close enough for their voices to have reached his ears with that pitch and volume of voice were a gang of dibbuns, a hogwife, and two voles. None of them had that note of authority in their voice, and Vian was still as confused as before.

As he wandered into Great Hall after the farewell crowd had dispersed from the front steps, Vian thought over the voice he had now heard on two occasions. He had the strangest feeling that he had heard it a third time, long ago. But when? And why? These two times they had checked some unholy thought or action, but he was sure that time he couldn't remember the voice had been guiding him or leading him. _"If I could only remember . . ."_

His eye fell on the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. He had spent many hours before simply staring at the magnificent piece of work, running his paw over the intricate pictures woven into it. He knew each one by heart, and often would read through the stories of Martin's life over and over again. _"It's the one part of Abbey history I know, besides the basic lives of other Abbey warriors,"_ Vian thought wryly. _"I really don't care, though . . ."_

He moved over to the tapestry, twining his paw in one of the tassels as he studied a series of pictures. The set he was examining told the story of Luke, Martin's father and the journey of the sword from Luke to Martin to Badrang the stoat and back to Martin.

Vian's paw traced the forms, then came back to the image of a young Martin about his age holding the sword of his father over his head, the sun flashing from it as he watched his father sailing away from him into the pages of history. Silver threads had been worked into the detail of the sword, and a combination of silver and gold formed the flashing light that emanated from it, a reflection of the sun emerging from behind a cloud. They were cold to the touch – as cold as a blade. Ice throbbed in Vian's body as he was swept into the moment with Martin. His father vanishing forever on an impossible quest, Martin's only remaining support the frail form of his grandmother behind him and the achingly heavy sword in his paws. A strange mixture of fear, courage, sorrow, and regret filled the young mouse – which young mouse, Vian couldn't tell which. It was an eerie sensation as he actually felt the sand beneath his paws, the sword held high over his head like a leaden weight to his young arms. With a strained flourish he saluted to his father, then lowered the sword to the ground, point resting in the sand as he continued to watch his father with an unblinking gaze.

Vian jerked away from the image, and at once he was back in Redwall's Great Hall again. The light flowing through the stained glass windows colored the floor into a rainbow of different hues. The unmoving red sandstone walls and columns stood like sentinels around him. A few distant abbey sounds echoed down the passage from Cavern Hole, but the size of the room hushed them.

The young mouse stood with his back to a column, gasping for breath. What had just happened? It was as if he had _been_ Martin, standing alone there on the shore. But how could he see that just by touching a few threads? According to all abbey records, the only times creatures ever received a message from Martin where when they were asleep.

But had that been a message?

Vian felt a thrill. If it was a message, it had to mean that Martin approved of his desire to be a warrior! Maybe even – he swallowed hard to keep down his excitement – maybe even he had given Vian permission to use his sword! Be the next abbey warrior!

Almost giddy with the thought, Vian slipped down the passage to Cavern Hole, glancing fugitively around to make sure nobeast was present. The coast clear, he tiptoed to the large flight of stairs that led upward to the dormitories and infirmary. His paws were silent as he crept up the sandstone stairs, soundless as he padded down the hallway, hushed as he reached a door and took a last step towards it.

Then he tripped.

With a squeak of alarm Vian pitched forward, scrabbling wildly to get his paws before him to block his fall. He didn't quite manage it. With a muted grunt his face struck the door, his paws scraping the sandstone floor painfully. Wincing, he sat up, rubbing his bruised nose and fingering a fine lump just below his eye. _"I'm going to have a shiner tomorrow morning,"_ he thought ruefully. Gingerly, he lifted his paws before his face. They weren't too bad, but one part of his left paw had been skinned and a claw on his right paw had been torn.

Lifting his eyes, Vian saw that nobeast had seen nor heard his mishap; the hall was still clear. Breathing a sigh of relief, the young mouse struggled up from the floor, vainly attempting to not use his tender paws. _"Buck up!"_ he snarled at himself. _"What warrior acts like a baby about a few scratches?"_ His pride reacted instantly to this thought. Rising to his full, if unimpressive, height, the young mouse stepped forward and opened the door.

It was a simple chamber, only about eight paces wide by ten paces long. A simple hickory bedsted stood against the far left corner, with a small table with an oil lantern resting upon it at its foot. A row of pegs with various articles of dress took up almost the entire wall in which the door was set. Half of the wall just in front and to the right of the door was plastered in various tidbits done by dibbuns, given as gifts at various feasts and lovingly kept in good condition, apart from the slightly hocus-pocus way they were put up. A grey, blue, and white round braid rug filled a good section of the floor, while against the far left wall stood a low bench made from a plank on two roughly hewn tree stumps. Noccan liked the wild, foresty look of his species' habitat, and decorated his room accordingly, if simply. The squirrel warrior also kept his room in perfect condition – for a bachelor, that is. In the corners were a stray dust bunny or two, and a few wrinkles on the bedspread showed his haste in setting it in place that morning.

Vian rapidly took in all these details of the Redwall warrior's chamber, but quickly swept them aside. His eyes fixed determinedly on the thing he had come for, resting on its brackets on the left wall above the bench. Martin's sword, with its black leather hilt, ruby red pommel stone, and fantastic blade, seemed to beckon to him from its place of prominence in the room.

And Vian answered to its call. Moving as if in a dream, he glided across the room and clambered up onto the bench. Oblivious to the stinging pain in his scraped paws, the young mouse stretched up on tip-paw, his shoulders straining as his paws just touched the hilt. Sliding back down, he glared at the seemingly impossible stretch of wall between him and his goal. But a warrior never gave in to anything, and he could conquer this. This time, instead of straining upward, the young mouse crouched down. Snapping up in a strong jump, he just managed to grasp the hilt in his paws before he plummeted to the floor, landing in a confused jumble of mouse and sword.

Triumph glowed warmly in Vian's chest as he sat up from his tumble, gazing entranced at the magnificent blade in his paws. Thrills ran up and down his arms, like tiny lightning bolts of energy. He could almost see the blue sparks jumping from the sword to his paws, running in electric rivers up into his body. His earth-brown eyes glowed like chocolate fire as he rose from his sitting position to stand erect and lift the sword.

"_It's so heavy!"_ he panted, straining to get the shining blade over his head. This was much harder than the practice sword! Almost too hard. The vision of the sword held high over his head as he watched Luke the Warrior sailing off into the unknown flashed through his mind. If he had been able to do it then, he could do it now.

"_But that was Martin, not me . . ._

"_But I don't care. I can do it. I_ have_ to do it."_

With those words of his ringing in his ears, Vian tried again. This time he slid his right paw up the hilt as far as the crosstrees, and with his left paw against the pommel stone he levered the blade up into the air. It hung, quivering, before him, power and strain making his arms tremble. It felt so – real – so – strong – to be holding the legendary sword in his own simple paws.

His thoughts skimmed over the many warriors that had touched this hilt; Martin, Luke, Dandin, Samkim, Matthias, Mattimeo, Martin II, Triss, Arven, Denya, Samkim, and Rakkety Tam, to name a few. He thought of the evil beasts who had held it, too; all those foxes, ferrets, weasels, and stoats who had misused the sacred emblem of Redwall.

"They didn't misuse it. A sword is only a thing, and the beast who holds it controls what it does. The blade has no choice, no ability to do anything."

This voice wasn't the strong, powerful voice that had spoken to Vian earlier; it was softer, more placid and calm, although it had the same ring of self-sureness and unwavering courage to it. Vian, even as he jumped and looked about, registered that the voice sounded more like a born-and-bred Redwallian warrior, not a warrior with the wildness of the wilderness throbbing in his veins.

This time the young mouse wasn't as shaken. He realized with a jolt that he was becoming more accustomed to the voices. As he thought this new voice over, he began to have the same strange feeling that he had heard it before.

And he almost thought he could connect both voices to faces . . .

Vian shook his head. That was impossible; the only face he could connect the voices to was his own. That was the only possible explanation; he was speaking common sense to himself.

Almost without thinking, he heaved the sword up again. Strength from some undetectable source streaked through him, and this time he held the blade of Martin high, without so much as a tremble of his paws or a quiver of his shoulders. A vigor that he had never known before pounded through his system. He was surrounded by battling creatures, fire raging off to one side. His eyes flashed fire as he charged into battle, knocking enemies aside like ninepins as he leaped towards his goal; a stoat carrying a blade. Blood roared in his ears as he thundered a challenge at his enemy, leaping for his throat.

And all at once it was over. The sword rested again on the floor, and again he was simple Vian the Abbeybeast. Vian the Warrior had vanished. The young mouse sighed. This was so tempting, all these visions of battle and warrior life – but how was he going to _get_ there?

Aha! He would show Ruggar his ability to handle the heavy blade, how he was more than ready to go into battle alongside the best of them. Ruggar would surely then let him train with real blades and the more advanced students. He would. He had to. Vian was more than ready, and he would show them all that a mute beast could be better than all of them put together!

He spun around and dashed out the door, the sword clattering against the floor. He flew down the hallway, ignoring a small gash across the heel from the slipping, sliding blade. Reaching the head of the stairs, he started down them at a breakneck pace.

And suddenly he tripped . . .

The sword slipped from his grasp, sliding down at an angle. And then Vian was tumbling, tumbling, tumbling. Ears over tail he fell, his already bruised face and scraped paws taking another beating, this one far worse than the first but made even more painful by the damage already inflicted. His nose banged against a stone step, and he could feel blood welling up as he crashed down, down, down. A banging, jolting fall that seemingly couldn't be stopped. Another claw tore, and both paws were badly skinned as he tumbled over and over, taking bruises at each roll.

After what seemed like minutes but what in reality was more like seconds, Vian saw the floor looming up. He tried to brace himself for the impact, but was unable to when the pommel stone of the sliding sword cracked him soundly between the ears. Shocked, he managed to slow his decent momentarily by digging his head and shoulders into a depression between stair treads, and the sword slithered on by him.

Then he was falling again, this time towards the sword as well as the unmoving sandstone floor. Stars danced like fireworks before his eyes, and he somehow realized before he struck the bottom that he was drifting into unconsciousness. When he hit the ground he also struck the sword. The last thing Vian was aware of was a screaming pain in his left side –

Then blackness.

_

* * *

What do you think of this chapter? The cliffhanger? All the new aspects I've opened in this chapter? Vian's battle training? And any other stuff you might want to comment on when you hit that lovely little review button down there? XP_

_Sorry this came up so late. I could have had it up on Wednesday, but something happened to the computer and it wiped out half of my chapter. I have no clue whatsoever why that happened, because it's never happened before, but let me tell you, I was SEETHING mad. But I think it actually helped, because this version is a vast improvement to what I had before. So don't complain._

_IT'S SUMMER!!!!! HIP HIP HOORAY!!!!! And that means more posts more frequently, so be on the lookout. I'll hopefully have my next __Foeseeker__ chapter up in, say, ten days, and this one right after that._

_Any ideas as to whom the voices are? Vian's own conscience? Martin? Vian's deceased father? Something or someone else? Please tell me your guess!_

_It's 11:30 pm as a write this, and I can't think of anything else to say, so God bless and a happy summer!_

_Foeseeker_


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